


Scars on every stalk

by gloss



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Age Difference, Authority Figures, Hogwarts AU, Multi, Survivor Guilt, Threesome - F/M/M, but no one more than these two, everyone needs a Poe, instafic, swpolyamoryweek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6610705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a terrible idea, but Poe is both invaluable and irresistible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars on every stalk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cicak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicak/gifts).



> I am so susceptible to the merest suggestion. /o\
> 
> Thanks to Jaci and G. for brainstorming the sorting with me. Title from Fugazi, "Strangelight".

They both know better. Leia knows from an ethical perspective exactly, and thoroughly, how wrong this is - briefly, an exploitation of asymmetric power for their personal enjoyment, potentially at the student's expense. Han knows from a much rougher, but just as deeply felt, pragmatic point of view how much this affair, were it to be discovered, endangers everything - life, professional reputation, social standing. He might not care for any of those things in the abstract, but he would like to continue having a roof over his head and food in his stomach, thanks all the same.

They know better than to make excuses and justifications. (Well, Leia does.)

But there is something vital, invaluable, *sustaining* about this. About Poe, between them, bridging them and comforting them, filling in the yawning gaps and softening the razor edges.

They hadn't spoken more than three civil words in over five years. Faculty meetings, dinners in the Great Hall, even innocent encounters in the corridors, were charged and toxic with their arguments and animosity. It wasn't so much Dark magic that arced between them as *wrong* magic, sickened magic, the sort of energy that doesn't kill but does deform and mutate in surprising ways. A banister caught between them might boil over into a long, decaying vine loaded with wasps' nests and overgrown with lichen. The pudding course would wobble, tremble, then burp, becoming an inedible mass of sandy mud.

No one took sides; no one dared. To do so would have risked too much outright anger and destructive retribution. A tense silence on the subject descended over the school and held tight. Besides, in the aftermath of Snoke's Slytherin-led massacre and subsequent exodus from the school, the Ministry was very anxious to pretend that no further conflicts were threatening the children. No matter that Han and Leia had lost Ben to that very departure; they were expected to continue as if nothing had changed.

The lines, however, were clear, most markedly among the students. Her Ravenclaws and his Gryffindors may have studied and socialize together, but a chill of separation only grew larger. The cheer and goodwill of the Hufflepuffs under Chewbacca was strained more and more.

"Not even the real deal," Han complained if anyone dared raise the issue with him. He hadn't even been Gryffindor when he was at Hogwarts, having cajoled the hat into sorting him with Chewbacca. "*Interim* Head of House, that's me. Take it up with Luke when he gets back."

No one knew when that might be, let alone if he were returning at all.

"Well, you're the one here," Poe told him, "so I'm taking it up with you."

He was a damn good-looking kid, Head Boy and Quidditch Captain, probably the best Seeker Gryffindor had seen since Luke himself, bright little star and so easygoing you couldn't help but like him. (Even if you tried to dislike him, which Han had, as an experiment of sorts, a hypothesis to test and re-charm.) And he was *confident* in a way that made even Han sit up a little straighter when spoken to.

Of course, upon catching himself doing so, Han slumped back down and rolled his eyes.

*

Poe's robe was permanently wrinkled from broomstick flying, his tie ever-askew, his hair in his eyes. He so rarely came to rest for anything to be straightened or put in place. Tonight, however, he far more mess than artful tousle. Late at night in the common room after a decisive victory over Hufflepuff, and a riotous party to mark the occasion, and Poe was lighting another candle to finish his essay for Prof. Organa.

"Hero of the hour," Han said from the doorway. "Party's long over. Shouldn't you be abed and dreaming?"

"Celebrating," Poe said briefly, dipping his quill, "got a little out of hand. Still need to write this."

"Go," Han told him. "That's an order."

Poe grinned over his shoulder. "You're only interim Head of House. I don't think you have that authority."

"What's so important you'd risk detention by mouthing off for?"

"Diplomatic Repercussions of Arithmancy," Poe said, reading off the title. "That's what I have so far. Scintillating."

Han groaned. He reached past Poe to grab the parchment, prepared to crumple it up or transfigure it into a toad, but the kid was too quick for him, ducking to the right and dropping out of his chair, rolling out of reach.

"Give me that --" Han scuffled with him, grabbing and feinting, but Poe evaded him every time, protecting the parchment while *smirking* at him. The expression flashed in and out, visible whenever it caught the firelight, then receding into soft, velvety darkness when he ducked away. "Come on, kid, give --"

Poe fought hard, catching Han with his elbows and forehead, once the sharp jut of his chin, until, backed up against the wall next to the fireplace, he suddenly wasn't fighting at all. He was tipping forward, opening an embrace, scooping Han -- the much larger, far older one -- up as easily as a golden snitch.

"Don't," Han said, almost a growl. He had one hand braced on the mantelpiece next to Poe's shoulder. "Don't you --"

Poe kissed him then, dropping the parchment, arms going around Han's waist, hands tugging up his robe, then tucking into the waistband of his trousers, holding tight. Han groaned again, frustration and exasperation mixing together, becoming something else at the pressure of Poe's body against the length of his own, becoming pleasure.

His hand pushed into Poe's hair, fingers closing, pulling his head back until Han was doing the kissing and Poe could only be kissed. He didn't appear to mind in the least; if anything, he eased a little more into Han's body, stuck fast, inextricable.

*

"I find it very curious, Mr. Dameron, how blithely unconcerned you are with the potential consequences of your behavior."

Poe nodded. "Yes, Professor Organa."

"Another essay not turned in, either on time or..." She made a point of checking her calendar. "Ever, it would seem."

"I will turn it in," he told her. "I just don't have it today."

"Might you have an estimated date of submission?" She strolled over to the window, which looked down over the back campus. Over her shoulder, she added with a small, insincere smile, "Humor me?"

It was much later, when she'd let him up off his knees, watched with half a smile as he dried his face of her wet with the hem of his robe, that he managed to give her a date.

He didn't, as it turned out, keep that commitment, but he'd meant to. He just had a lot on his plate; he found it very difficult to say no, let alone prioritize.

*

"This is cozy," Han said when he arrived in her suite. Poe sat on one small couch, wearing a clean, pressed robe, his hair brushed back and tie nice and straight. "What've you done to my Seeker? He looks like as neat and soulless as a droid."

"I haven't 'done' a thing," she said. "Mr. Dameron arrived in that state."

Poe rolled his eyes. "Give me a break."

"Give you a what?" Han snapped. 

"Perhaps you could enlighten us," Leia said, "as to the purpose of this meeting."

Han turned to her. "You scheduled it."

"No," she said, firm and precise as ever. "You did."

"I did," Poe said. They turned to look at him; he'd leaned back, hitching both his arms over the back of the couch. His legs were splayed, one knee swinging back and forth, testing the width of his robe.

"This is absolutely *splendid*," Han said, heading for the door. "Now I've wasted a whole morning on funtime kiddie pranks."

"Why would you deceive both of us?" Leia asked, intrigued, as ever, by the vagaries of behavior. "What are you after?"

"Don't talk to him like he's one of your eggheads," Han said, shouldering his way back into the room. "C'mon, kid, let's go."

"We're not going anywhere," Poe said.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, taking in the sight of them standing next to each other - big, shaggy Solo, tiny, tense Organa - and how they still, after everything, could look so right together.

"You talk to each other like strangers." He tugged on the knot of his tie to loosen it. "It's fucking stupid."

"Excuse me?" Han said.

Leia crossed her arms. When she did speak, her voice was cold. "That sort of language is unacceptable, Mr. Dameron."

Poe grinned, wider and wider. He sat forward, clasping his hand between his knees, neither blinking nor looking away from her. She did not take a step back, but she did stiffen. Fractionally, but enough for Han to notice. For Poe, too.

"What the *hell*?" Han asked, sinking down onto the arm of the nearest chair. "What the hell is going on?"

"I think," Leia said, taking a seat in the same chair, "Mr. Dameron would be the one to answer that."

She was daring him, but she was also ducking the challenge herself.

"Me?" Poe sat back again, posture slipping back into ease and languor, all the intensity of his focus gone. "Never. I'm a master of discretion. You two have something to share, I'm not going to break confidences."

He jiggled his wand from hand to hand, drawing out quick-fading charms of flowers, leaves, cat whiskers, while Han and Leia stared at each other.

They were silent, watchful, long enough that the light changed in the room, the fire crashed down, Leia's cat Threepio stirred from his nap and pranced off in search of food.

*

The night Snoke and Ben unleashed the basilisk, Han and Leia shouted until they lost their voices, struck out at each other and the walls and anything within reach until their knuckles bled, then, exhausted by grief and terror, collapsed on each other on the floor of the house they once shared, kissing desperately, clawing each other's clothes off, muttering so hoarsely about how sorry they were and how much they hated each other. 

Poe was in his second year then. He didn't know any of this, of course. He and the rest of the student survivors were bundled away into the woods by Chewbacca and Luke. He helped carry a sick first year across the muddy ground, then flew his broomstick back and picked up two more.

His mom and dad used to tell him stories about life at Hogwarts under Palpatine. He never thought he'd be able to help like they did. He didn't even think he'd be sorted into Gryffindor - his mom was Gryffindor, but he figured he was like his dad, solidly Hufflepuff, dependable and stalwart, but nothing of real note.

He lay back now on her bed, his robe shed across the room, shirt open, trousers tangled on the floor, and saw, as if from the silvered back of a mirror, how things could be, should be, that night years ago, where they were headed now. He tipped his head against Leia's breast. She smiled down at him, wicked and knowing, *so* smart it was scary, as Han curved around his other side, kissing her neck as he jerked Poe off. Han looked over at him, half-smirking, when Poe reached into his lap to return the favor. 

Leia reclined back, shifting Poe aside, curling her arm around his neck to guide him between her legs.

He was helpful, he was brave, he was *invaluable*. 

All too soon, they weren't going to know what to do without him

He needed to be needed; need meant no one could leave you.

*

Chewie figured it out immediately. Some combination of knowing both Han and Leia better than they knew each other, or themselves, and the change in scent, a commingling that used to be familiar and constant but was now sharp and novel, and plain observation. Everyone's magic improved, nearly overnight. Both Han's astronomy and broom work went from trudgingly mediocre back to stunning, even inspirational, while Leia's arithmancy returned to its former realm, the inaudible, crystalline music of the spheres.

Poe's magic had always been expansive, fertile and delightful. That did not change, but it did brighten, grow *more* colourful and unexpectedly fun.

Chewie would not tell anyone, but he warned them - Han, overtly, in no uncertain terms, and Leia with merely a significant glance - to be careful.

It wasn't the sex so much - even Han knew that - though none of them would have given up the sex, either. It was the prologue, when Han and Leia could sit next to each other, quietly, *comfortably*, waiting for Poe to burst in from the pitch, sweaty and cold, red spots high in his cheeks and his fingers almost numb from practice. It was the moments afterward, when one was dozing off, spent and warm, and the other two chuckled together, combed out your hair with their fingers, wove a small filigree'd charm over your closed lids. It was the days apart, when everyone was so busy with studies and duties that there was only time for a glance down to the end of a corridor, half a smile in passing, and if not that, just the singular, momentary warmth of remembering that they were near, and you would see them, both, smiling, again sooner rather than later.

When grief receded, it was a choppy, unpredictable process, an ebb that turned on you, nearly drowning you all over again, but then you broke the surface, treasure caught in your fist, and you realized you could breathe again. You'd been breathing all along.

Where two could not coexist, and one was so lonely that he'd double over in pain, three made a mystery.

*

Poe took it all. Lapped it up, eked it out, asked for more, hungrily, his face red and voice hoarse with want. He wanted to taste them both, to be inside her, before her, and beneath him, below him: mouth and hands, cock and arse. 

He offered all of himself, the sort of wager that, in other hands, made to other hearts, would have been dark indeed. Those were the sort of demands power made, on Grindelwald, Voldemort, Palpatine, Vader, Snoke. 

But offered freely, flung out from his smile like candy from a fist, what was tendered was light, brilliant particle and wave, impossible to dim.

*

The son they loved so much that love overshot him, left him in its lee and its shadows to become a murderer, a monster.

The boy they loved in no way like a son flourished, grew yet stronger and braver, more beautiful.


End file.
